


Irishmen Can Cook

by mcgarrygirl78



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Drama, Episode: s07e18 Requiem, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-05
Updated: 2008-04-05
Packaged: 2019-05-31 07:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15114434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcgarrygirl78/pseuds/mcgarrygirl78
Summary: It must have been his ninth life.





	Irishmen Can Cook

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

  
Author's notes: This was written for tww_minis prompt of sons and daughters on LJ. I typed this out immediately from my gut so I hope it doesn't suck. Mallory is a character I don't write about often but she told me her story and I listened.  


* * *

She slid the keycard in and watched the light turn green before turning the knob. The air in the room was heavy and stale but underneath it she could still smell him. He always smelled so good. Even as a child, crawling into his lap when he smelled of a good ¾ of a bottle of scotch, the sweet smell of her father always came through. All this time and she was not even sure what it was. She was not sure she wanted to know…the mystery was part of his allure.

Mallory turned on the lights and looked around the room. So much of him was there; it had been home for over six years. On the coffee table in the living room, there were the magazines he loved, National Geographic, Time, and American Photography. She picked up a tattered copy of Native Son and leafed through the pages. She could picture him, another late night unable to sleep, out there reading or maybe just skimming words he knew by heart.

A piece of her did not want to move a thing. This was the last of her father and it deserved to stay where it was. The hotel was not rushing her but it was something that she needed to do. Her husband offered to do it himself, or at least come and help; Mallory refused. She could not remember the last time she was alone with her father. She wanted to be alone today. Boxes were sitting in the corner; the staff was gracious enough to supply whatever she needed. Mallory grabbed one and got to work.

There was not much in the kitchen. Leo McGarry always preferred a meal at a nice restaurant to making one on his own. It was a shame too, as he was an excellent cook. He used to make her breakfast on Saturdays when she was really small, before he started taking her to the city’s restaurants and feeding her the best made by other hands. Mallory remembered sitting on the counter, helping with the pancake batter or using the whisk to whip the eggs just like daddy showed her.

The coffeemaker went in a box. There was a four-piece set of china, plates and glasses. Mallory took her time wrapping each one carefully. She removed all the silverware and packed that too. Three White House mugs, a set of wine glasses, and the crystal tumblers he loved so much were all wrapped and placed in a box. There was little to nothing in the cabinets by a way of food so Mallory went to the pantry. Opening the tiny door, her breath caught in her throat. 

An apron hung on the back of the door. The one she bought Leo for his 50th birthday. Mallory actually bought him a whole set of pots and pans, utensils, and the apron. It was green and had in bright white letters the words ‘Irishmen can cook’. She figured he would use it to make her mother breakfast in bed on lazy Sunday mornings that never came into existence. The next summer he was off to New Hampshire to woo Jed Bartlet into running for President of the United States.

Pulling it from the hook, Mallory hugged the apron close and was again greeted with the smell of her father. The tears came before she could stop them. She put her face into the apron and cried her eyes out. Making her way to a chair, she placed her face on the cool kitchen table. Her father was gone; she had just gotten him back and he was gone. The first massive heart attack had not killed him. When it happened, Mallory paced the hospital floors coming up with worse case scenarios, imagined breaking the news to her mother, thought of which of his many suits was his favorite…she would bury him in it. However, Leo survived. He opened his eyes, fought a hard fight, and pressed on. 

It must have been his ninth life. When she was a child, her mother shielded her from so much; hell even at his worst Leo never wanted his daughter to know he was an alcoholic and drug addict. She was born with his perception however, she knew and made excuses for him as everyone else did, until there were no excuses left to make. Grabbing a towel to wipe her face, Mallory folded the apron and put it on top of the rest of the items before closing the box. Taking the Sharpie from her back pocket, she labeled it fragile and left the room.

Who knew a man could own so many clothes? Leo used to complain when she was a teenager that she would never find the time nor the social engagements for the clothes that filled her closet. She wore a uniform to school; what did she need all of this for? Of course, for whatever she wanted he was there with the credit card. It was probably out of guilt, but at 16 Mallory was not ready to be the bigger person and tell her father he never had to buy her affection.

One by one, she pulled the suits from the closet, lining them in the bag across the bed. If Mallory would have taken a moment to think about it she would have brought two but with a little squeeze, they all went in. The dress shirts and ties went into the open suitcase. Then the tee shirts, sweaters, and few casual clothes, along with undergarments, came out of the dresser. She found all forty pairs of Leo’s cufflinks, knowing she would give most of them away to the people who cared about him. His beloved framed napkin sat next to the box that held a few pieces of jewelry, including his wedding band. Mallory put that in her purse.

There were photos in beautiful frames. One of she and her mother, she was no more than five years old. There was one of him and the President, young men in their 20s looking forward to their whole lives. A black and white of his parents on their wedding day sat beside one of him and Jenny on theirs. One of his team; CJ, Toby, Josh, Sam, and Donna, smiling next to the Bartlet for America bus on one of its many stops around the country. Mallory found a ratty one at the bottom of the drawer of a woman she had never seen before, embracing her father on a boat. He could not have been more than 20 years old. She was beautiful, and their faces youthful and happy. Not in a frame, she placed it in her purse before wrapping everything else in newspaper and putting it in a box.

It only took three hours to pack up her father’s life. He did not have much in the hotel beyond material items needed for everyday living. Sitting down on the couch when she was done, she wondered what her father did when he was here. Did he just eat and sleep? Did he lean back; close his eyes and think of a time when he lived happily in Chevy Chase with her mother? Did he work too hard, pouring over folders and binders, squinting over his bifocals, as CNN or some other news outlet played on low volume?

Did he entertain women, or perhaps friends? Mallory hoped he was not too lonely but she would never know the true answer to that. She hoped that this large, expensive hotel suite had seen laughter, love, sex, tears, and triumph. She hoped that it had seen every side of Leo McGarry that she sometimes found difficult to reach.

Grabbing the pillow beside her, Mallory held it to her nose and inhaled the scent. He was gone, he would never again make her want to scream in frustration, or put his arms around and tell her how much he loved her. He would not drive her batty with his stubbornness, or make her smile with his thoughtful words. Her daughter, Helena, would never know her grandfather. She would never sit on his lap and listen to stories that should have been boring or sad, but he would spin them into adventure tales. He would never carry her on his shoulders at a parade, teach her how to whistle, or tickle her nose with the scent of his aftershave. He was really gone.

A concierge came to help Mallory load all the boxes and bags onto a luggage cart. She took one last look at the place before walking to the elevator. Down in the lobby, she returned the key cards. The deposit of $2500 was given to her in the form of a cashier’s check. She was gracious as the front desk personnel offered condolences, smiling when they all said what a wonderful man Mr. McGarry was. Was…would she ever get used to that term?

Out in the sunshine of a bitter cold Washington afternoon, Mallory packed everything into her SUV. Sitting in the driver’s seat for a while after it was done, she thought of her father and cried once again. Sometimes it seemed as if she would never stop, other times she was on autopilot and none of it was real. While she was never fond of the idea, he should have been Vice-President of the United States. After one term, Leo would have settled into the much-deserved life of father, grandfather, and elder statesman.

Perhaps he could have found love, or at least companionship, in his later years. All Mallory could hope now is that he died happy. No, she could not hope or even think about that. With time, his life rather than death would again fill the crevices of her mind. Mallory would carry Leo’s dreams, hopes, stories, failures, and victories for her child and their loved ones. She would straighten her back as her father always did, lift her chin, and walk into the future knowing he was still beside her.

***


End file.
